


Human Resources

by zulu



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Threesome, for:bell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-10
Updated: 2009-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-04 07:53:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/pseuds/zulu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House tells Foreman and Amber they have to break up or he'll fire one of them.  Amber has a better plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Human Resources

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bell (bellaboo)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellaboo/gifts).



> Written for bell for her participation in [Drabblerama: Birthday Bash!](http://queenzulu.livejournal.com/427902.html), and also whose birthday it was, up until about two hours ago. Happy belated birthday! Thank you to shutterbug_12 and Ttroutkitty for the betas and to thedeadparrot and kuwdora for the handholding and cheerleading. This is just a teeny little PWP ficlet, I swear!

**Human Resources**

Amber curls on Eric's bed, chin propped on her hand, and follows him with her eyes. Eric is a gorgeous guy, but he can act like a complete _child_ when there's no reason to get remotely upset. She keeps her expression solemn when he turns to her in his pacing. She shouldn't laugh, but when he's pouting, Eric really has no shame. Jaw set, lower lip protruding, eyes dark and reproachful. In his pressed suit, waistcoat with an honest-to-God _pocketwatch_, and his meticulously shined shoes, he's like a peacock. Pretentious and ridiculous, sure, but hot. Some part of Amber can't help responding. She strips him with her eyes, peeling away his layers until he's hers again, naked and intimate.

With that kind of incentive, her patience wears thin in moments. "Oh, come on," she says, annoyed enough to let her amusement show. "He hasn't done anything."

"Except threaten to fire us--"

"--and he won't." If Eric weren't so in love with his own persecution, he might actually see her. Amber pouts in her turn. A smile should light his eyes, his bruised ego should give way to smugness--and no wonder, when someone as amazing as she is decides she wants him. She wants him to prowl toward her and pounce on the bed. She knows he'll pretend to be unaffected in the tender moment before kissing her.

Nice fantasy. No other topic but House could keep Eric too preoccupied to follow through. Amber isn't pleased either, but only Eric could get so fixated on House's game of the week. Since Eric was "properly interviewed", he can't see House as one mindfuck after the next. So House has handed down an ultimatum for them to break up or be fired. They simply need to come up with a better plan.

"He can't do this," Eric says. His fingers twitch into fists, or maybe he's imagining wringing House's neck. Maybe he should try. Eric's much more fun when he gives in to passion rather than letting his frustration simmer.

"Of course he can't," she says. God, enough of this. Eric can't see over House's line in the sand, so she'll have to prod him past it. "If he really wanted to keep us apart, he would have made it a condition of hiring me."

Eric's anger deflates like a balloon with a slow leak. He can look so little-boy-wounded, turning his hurt against her, even though he'd never admit that's what he's doing. "Would you have taken the job--"

Amber falters, heat suffusing her face. For the first time, her inviting posture on the bed becomes more pretense than beguilement. "I--I don't know."

"Are you going to leave me to keep the job?"

"No." Amber sits up, lifting her chin and staring him down. With anyone else, it would be tiresome, but--but this is _Eric_, who smiles in the mornings no matter how snappish she is, who runs his fingers through her tangled hair and says he doesn't need more. He doesn't need perfection. Well, she doesn't need his permission. Amber does perfection for herself, never for anyone else. But. But it's nice to know that there's someone who doesn't call her cut-throat bitch. Someone who knows what she does, at work, who watches her with a proprietary pride (the pride she likes, the proprietary she hasn't been able to break him of). Eric respects her work, but he's able to keep up with her in bed too. To have both is still, after months, a novelty. When he focuses on her, Amber can feel the rest of his world simply dropping away.

Except when the subject's House. "You know I won't," she repeats. She might have dumped him to get the job, when they had barely met. Five months in, the longest relationship she's ever had, she thinks that maybe, maybe this is more than dating, although she'll leave the stupid platitudes and ridiculous endearments to Eric. He can touch her so slowly, so tenderly, that she sometimes doesn't know whether to give in to her own pleasure or writhe away and escape. It's cloyingly, sickeningly sweet--but. But it's Eric.

That doesn't make him any less annoying when he's brooding on the unfairness of life and waiting for her to get as upset as he is. Amber isn't going to do anything of the sort. "We'll go back with a counteroffer."

"There's no counteroffer to 'you're fired'."

Eric doesn't like to believe that House has ulterior motives, even after all this time. He knows House is manipulative, and he'll always believe the worst of him, but he'll never understand that House is only looking for something he wants. This is his opening, king's pawn to king's pawn four. House thinks he's the grandmaster, but Amber can see the board more clearly than he does. "Let me handle it," she says, marshalling her tactics.

Eric snorts, ducking his head to hide his chuckle. With two big strides he crosses the room, the mattress dipping when straddles her, grinning. Amber rolls easily to her back underneath him--on top doesn't mean in control, which is why she lets him. He dips low for a kiss. Amber closes her eyes, tastes his soft lips. The light scratch of his beard adds to the sensation, and his tongue, warm and confident, slides against hers. "Now," he says, their breaths mingling. "Why don't I trust you to do that?"

Eric thinks he's playing games; it's cute. Amber smirks up at him. "He wants something." Men are so easy to figure out. She palms Eric's chest, brings her hands around his broad shoulders. God, he turns her on, which is another reason that she hasn't grown tired of him. Eric's never been very good at holding back, no matter what he feels. He likes to pretend he can deprive her, but she can arouse him as quickly as he can her. She can get lost in him, easily, but she trusts him not to leave her behind.

"Yeah," Eric says, holding tenaciously to the subject even as he lavishes attention on her earlobe. Amber smiles slowly as her arousal unfurls. "He _wants_ to make us miserable."

"Mmm." Why argue? House is miserable, and he likes to believe that's the only possible condition of existence. Eric hovers above her. Soon he'll press his weight against her, firm against the mattress, so warm; she'll revel in the strength of his body. Oh, yes, it's possible to be happy. House was waiting for them to implode, that's all. He only threw a pointless threat at them when it became clear that they wouldn't. He must think they're going to last or he wouldn't be throwing cherry bombs. "He wants something. But firing us isn't it."

"He wants," Eric says, shaking his head gently, "to watch us wriggle like worms on a hook."

"I can change his mind," Amber snaps. Damn him talking down to her. It's no longer open for debate. She takes a breath, reigning in her automatic response to a challenge. She smiles up at him, coy. "Let me try."

Eric knows she's playing him, but the amazing thing about him is that he doesn't mind, as long as it's transparent. "I'm going to regret this, aren't I?"

Amber shrugs. Her pleasure sliding lower, revelling in his concession. She runs a hand along his ass, around his hip to the promise of his erection. "Thank you, Eric," she says primly, and she starts to unzip his fly.

* * *

When House erases the symptoms of their latest case-turned-miracle-cure from the whiteboard, Amber arches an eyebrow at Eric. His peevish, huffing sigh is all the agreement she needs. Satisfied, Amber sits back in her chair while the rest of them pack up. Eric thumps out first, shoulders hunched as he ignores the rest of them. Such a little raincloud.

Thirteen and Taub both give Amber their version of a meaningful look: Thirteen's lips curve into an amused smile which is not at all angelically attractive, and Taub tilts his head to try, pathetically, to pierce her with a flat _I am not asking because I do not care to know_ look. Taub and Thirteen _won't_ know about this, or at least, not until the deal is done, and that pleases her. Everything is going according to plan. Until they leave, Amber concentrates diligently on the paperwork transferring their patient officially over to the ICU. Lengthy, painful recovery; how boring.

Of course House is aware of the by-play. She and Eric haven't mentioned his ultimatum at all today, despite his jabbing comments. He sniffs dismissively and limps out of the conference room without a word, but also without any indication that she should get lost. God, this is going to be good.

Amber follows him through the glass door. Even early on a February afternoon, House's office is blue-shadowed. He sits with his shoulders slumped against the back of his desk chair, making a mockery of its ergonomic design. One hand on his thigh--and he lurched in here with the particular, rolling gait of a long day. If he takes a pill, Amber scores a point; if his fingers tighten, kneading at the knots of ruined muscle, she's winning. "Come to hand in to quit?" He must know the effect that word has on her. "Or to live up to your name and shank Foreman in the back?"

There are far more solutions to the prisonner's dilemma than House has dreamed of. Amber won't let him see her flinch at _I'm about to fire you_; that's her weakness. If Eric knows it then House certainly does. Such an obvious trap. She sits across from him, crossing her legs decorously. House likes her legs and it suits her to use her assets. "If you want to play with us," she says, smooth as new cream, "there's a better way."

"I'm not playing. I want you efficient."

Too bad House is so poor at playing righteous anger. He has no leg to stand on (Amber smiles--_as it were_) when it comes to _their_ professionalism. "If you think I've held back, even once, when I think that Eric's been wrong, then I'll hand in my notice right now." Amber has _never_ held back. She'd be tempted to agree with Eric so that they can avoid the passive-aggressive fights, the snits that Eric gets into, or her own fury, when they go home after a day of wrangling, shouting each other down for the faint praise of House's approval. It's all worthwhile for the moments when she's right and Eric has to swallow his words. Every flirting, lilting told-you-so is an affront to him, but she can't help it. Amber could almost thank House for preparing Eric to hear how wrong he is in every possible form, years before she ever met him.

It does help that being right makes her horny. Eric's never failed to benefit from a day when she gets the diagnosis right.

House drops his chin to his chest and stares at her, as if over the rims of his reading glasses. "I think _he_ holds back."

Amber freezes. If Eric has ever dared to be a "gentleman" around her--diagnostically!--then she'd flay him first and stake him out for the ants after. She hasn't quite broken him of playing the prince in their private lives--he likes to open doors for her, and Amber has no idea what _that's_ about--but she was certain that his pride in his own medical abilities would keep him from doing it at work. Stung, she forces a smirk. "Not when I tell him not to."

House lets out a soft, satisfied grunt, _huh_. Tallying a point for himself. Amber has no idea why he doesn't simply take it as read, but apparently the fact that she is the dominant one in their relationship is still that amusing.

Amber laces her fingers together over her knee. Enough of the preliminaries. "We're not breaking up. You're not firing either one of us. Because I'm inviting you to watch us."

She holds House in her sights; even a flicker could be something she can use. To her disappointment, he doesn't give anything away. No satisfaction from ticking a bead across her mental abacus.

"Darn, and the hooker jokes were already so easy." House's mouth twitches. The sentence pretty much completes itself: _kind of like you_. But the moment passes quickly, and a crafty light enters his eyes. "Your boyfriend doesn't want me touching you."

Amber lifts her chin imperiously. Whether House knows it or not, he's accepted the gambit. He wants better fantasy material. Amber can more than provide it. And she knows something Eric doesn't; it's so obvious that it makes her want to laugh again, except that would give her away. House might sleep with her, it's true; he's attracted enough, and she's his type: leggy, assertive. Not dark, though, that's something that Wilson gave away when she went fishing for information to help her win at House's games. Well, he can deal with her being blonde. The rest, he likes. Amber could ride him while he did nothing more than watch her, wide-eyed and panting, nearly paralyzed by his own desire. But type or not, he's not attracted to _her_; not the way he is with Cuddy, say, or even Thirteen. He appreciates her, and maybe she turns him on, and as tonight proves, they both enjoy sparring. But Amber herself won't turn the tide. An offer of a blowjob, or sex--that wouldn't stop House from casually firing her tomorrow. This offer--watching--just might. "I told you. Eric will do what I ask."

This time, House reacts; it's as subtle as a deeper-than-normal breath, but for Amber it's more than enough. "I think you've got a pretty high opinion of what you can make Foreman do," he says.

"Oh," Amber says carelessly. "I don't have that high an opinion of you."

House swallows. His eyes dart away from hers for the first time. "Nice try. Break up or I fire you."

Oh, yes. Warmth surges through her. It's over, it's simply a matter of House tipping his king. Amber smiles, refusing to promise to keep his secrets. By herself she's not enough to make this deal happen. And that is perfectly fine; even the thought makes her squeeze her knees together, anticipating. "No. You want this. You want us."

House grabs the handle of his cane. His shoulders bunch as he shoves himself upright; walking away from the treaty table as if they haven't already made the contract. "And all this time I thought my English to Bitch translator was working."

"You made yourself clear. You can come over Saturday." Amber stays seated; nice to have him standing, like a supplicant, while she waits on her own pleasure. "Nine o'clock. You can watch, no touching--but I think you know the rules." Flutter of eyelashes, a soft reminder of how pathetic he is without her. Gracefully, she climbs to her feet, smoothing her skirt. In her heels, she's tall enough to look him directly in the eyes. Amused, she lets him search out whatever meaning he'd like to find in her words. "If you still want to fire one of us on Monday..." She trails off, pressing her lips into a moue, triumph lighting her voice. "Then we won't deserve the job, will we?"

* * *

There are stairs outside Amber's building.

The Bitch doesn't miss a trick. If House struggles up one damn step after another to knock on her door, she'll know exactly how much he wants this. She's turning him into the beggar. Not the boss making the hire-or-fire decision, no. He's the pathetic bastard who's so hard up that he'd torture himself on a staircase rather than miss the show.

House taps the rubber tip of his cane against the first step, one hand gripping the stone railing. A lamp glows in the window to the left of the door--Amber's apartment, looking so damn snug. Foreman's probably right at home. Probably smug as hell. House has left them waiting for an hour. They've probably already _made love_ and when he makes it to the top of the stairs, he'll knock only to have Foreman give him a fucking _pitying_ smile and tell him he's missed his chance. So fucking sorry.

House sets his cane on the first step, lifts his left foot first, grunts at the burn in his thigh as he hauls up his useless right. One down, and counting the rest never helps. Sweat slides down his ribs, chill, before he's halfway up. At the top, sucking in air, House spares a glare for the damn picture-book lamp-glow window, and then leans on every buzzer except Amber's until one of her neighbours gets fed up enough to let him in.

He raps on her front door with the head of his cane, hard enough to dent. Now she'll make him wait. Laugh at the damn cripple while she takes her sweet time getting to the door--

It opens before he's ready. Foreman stands inside all that cozy yellow light, nostrils flaring, his chest puffed up like a bullfrog, bristling like House insulted his mother. House should know. He has an accurate baseline for that comparison.

House lets out a breath. If Amber had opened the door with a coy smile, he would have twisted around and stumped step by painful step right back down the fucking stairs. Since it's Foreman, House straightens his shoulders and matches Foreman's glower. "Out of my way," he snaps. He bumps past Foreman, throwing an elbow at his sternum as he jostles by. House is _not_ going to back down in front of Foreman, and he is _not_ giving up the chance to see Foreman as humiliated as possible. Foreman naked will do nicely to start. Foreman making sweet, tender love to a tarantula will do fine as the main course. And, for afters, mocking Foreman's technique, relationship, dick size, and willingness to fuck for House's entertainment will top the evening. Then House will get the hell out of here and get a hand down his pants, so that he can jerk off to all of the above.

Just as abruptly, he stops two steps inside. The better to get in Foreman's way. Across the living room, Amber sits enthroned like a queen, smooth legs delicately curled up under her. She's wearing a fleecy Columbia hoodie, so large that the wrist cuffs fall over her hands: Foreman's. The skirt underneath is tight enough to cling to her thighs, but otherwise it's nothing special. House spares a glance for Foreman. Dull sweater, pale-kneed jeans. Nothing ratty, though compared to his suited self, this version of Foreman is a hobo. House's suit jacket probably puts him over the top for the room's most formal outfit.

Short of the two of them having sex right in front of him and ignoring his existence, House doubts they could scream _you don't belong here_ any louder. His grip around the handle of his cane tightens, to stop himself from beating the tempo of his heartbeat against the hardwood. "If you think I'm a cheap date, you're wrong," he says, turning his sneer on Foreman. "_Some_ effort would be nice."

"This isn't a seduction," Foreman snaps, slamming the door shut. By the gather and bunch of his shoulder muscles and the tic in his jaw, either he's on the edge of a coronary or he's about to Hulk out.

It's comforting. House nods curtly and turns to the puppetmaster. "Is he always this pleasant about doing what you say?"

Amber pouts delicately. "Too bad you missed the foreplay," she says. "You might have learned something." Nodding at the hallway, she adds, "Second door on the right. We'll be there in a minute."

Foreman's like a looming thunderstorm behind him. House wouldn't be surprised if his pissiness is changing the local barometric pressure. House lets his gaze linger on Amber's legs; nearly purring, she accepts his stare as her due, extending one satin-smooth ankle for his delectation. Foreman's anger simmers toward the boil. House counts down from lightning to thunder: one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three--

"Now, House. If you want this to happen," Amber says sweetly.

House lets out an amused huff. Heading for the hall isn't a concession yet. And somehow, Foreman's standing close enough to his route that House can spare him another shove; he's generous like that.

Amber's room fits her perfectly. Straightforward, classy, edges disguised in silk. House debates how much he wants to follow her implicit instructions, but the padded chair facing the bed is about the best view that he's going to get. He sits down and lets his cane clack against the wall. Dimly, he hears murmurs from the living room. Not hard to decrypt. Foreman spitting nails, Amber stroking his dick through his fly to keep him pliable. House adjusts in the chair, massaging his thigh. Waiting tightens him up, knots the beginning of pain above his knee and knifes it past his hip to the small of his back. With a rattle, he shakes his pills out of his coat pocket. Opens the bottle and downs one. He's not going to sit around for fucking ever while Foreman gets his ego or his morality or his damn sensibilities groomed into submission. The room's too hot for comfort; House strips off his coat and lets it slump to the floor.

His eyes lift without thought when the bedroom door opens wider. Amber backs in first, one hand curled in Foreman's sweater. Foreman's stare burns when he picks out House, over Amber's shoulder, where he's sitting in the chair's shadow. Amber murmurs, "Eric," and Foreman focuses on her again, eyes softening. He leans in for a kiss. Amber's soft sigh turns into an equally soft gasp.

House shifts, unimpressed. It's all artwork and clockwork. Bodies in motion staying in motion. He could have bought Foxy Vixens 18 and had his $9.99's worth of satisfaction by now. Foreman's shoulders tense the second House's unimpressed grunt hits the air. His chin jerks up, mouth slipping wetly from Amber's. House can see the shine on his lips; his own mouth is dry, and he has to work up the spit to swallow. It doesn't really matter if it's fury or raging humiliation he sees in Foreman's eyes. House is probably going to get _thrown_ down that fucking staircase.

Amber's lips brush Foreman's ear. Foreman inhales, shivers--Amber's fingernails trail up his sides as she raises the hem of his sweater. Jesus, she's the goddamn Foreman whisperer. His eyes have fluttered closed, his head bends forward; the long line of his obliques contracts as he helps Amber pull the sweater over his head.

House slants his eyes to the side and waits for them to damn well get _on_ with it. The sheets are smoothed to within an inch of their life; the headboard is a heavy, dark wood that isn't even notched to mark each of Amber's kills; there's a tasteful bookcase in the corner filled with trashy whodunnits. Amber's got Foreman's earlobe between her teeth. His hands are up under that shapeless hoodie, revealing flashes of her smooth stomach. House's fingers twitch, tapping the armrest. Finally, his head swings back against the cushion, and he bursts out, "Is this going to take all night?"

Amber lets out a soft, tinkling laugh. "That's usually the idea."

House snaps his mouth shut and sets his jaw. The pit of his stomach smoulders, and the burn spreads. "If I walk out of here before anyone gets to the point, someone's getting fired on Monday."

Foreman pulls in a breath; his pecs stand out, his abs ripple. The fucking lamplight conspires to highlight every inch of definition in his muscles. House's hand falls to his thigh and he pushes at the pain. He's not interested in Foreman's fucking opinion and he cuts him off before he can deliver it. "If I was interested in foreplay I'd have stayed home with the Life network and a pint of Rocky Road."

"And a box of kleenex, I'm sure." Amber's moue of amusement is worse by far than Foreman's little snit. It _grates_, like she's grinding an axe on his dignity.

House glances at his cane and shifts forward, setting his weight over his feet. "More than I'd need here." Even before standing up he feels too heavy to move, and he doesn't even have a damn hard-on to blame for it. Their job is to be entertaining, not to start balking at being told to move it along.

Amber tosses her hair back and lifts her chin. "Stay there," she says. Her hands go to the small of her back, there's the hiss of a zipper, and then she's stepping out of her skirt. The hoodie's too long to see anything but the tease has improved by at least fifty percent.

House snorts and settles back. If he'd known Amber was this easy on a dare, it wouldn't have been nearly as fun arranging for tonight. "Does Foreman know you get naked for anyone who tries to walk out on you?"

Amber's only answer is to pull the hoodie over her head. She's not naked underneath. The red lace is very much _there_, but House can't find it in him to resent it. Amber's panties rise high on her hips and show off an ass that's even better than he imagined. Cuddy's breasts are better, but Amber's bra does everything for hers. The result is spectacular, the slight curve of her belly, the hourglass dip below her ribs, the line of her collarbones: every inch a boast. House could be nailed to his chair for all the likelihood that he's going to walk out now.

Foreman's eyes warm with appreciation, his smile turns tender. He deliberately meets House's eyes before he brushes his lips across Amber's. Amber tilts her head back, her hands teasing shivers up Foreman's spine to the nape of his neck, inviting him to fucking _wor_ship her. Foreman's hands curve at her hips, fingertips catching in lace, and he leans in, tasting her throat, whispering soft-lipped at her ear.

Watching them kiss is like watching the original inspiration for smugness. They're the same damn height, such a picture-perfect match. Assured, easy, they kiss like they haven't been fucking for months, like it's new and shockingly arousing. Amber's breasts push against Foreman's chest, and the curve at Foreman's fly--fuck, when did he get hard?--fits so perfectly between her thighs, especially when Foreman's palm rubs over her ass and _urges_ her closer. Pause, breath, and a_gain_; Amber finds the cadence and rolls her hips back. The beat echoes their breathing, and House finds himself inhaling in time, like his body's the metronome to their music. He presses his lips shut but he can't stop breathing and he can't control his pulse. They've tapped his autonomic nervous system and they're drawing out reactions he doesn't want to have.

He circles the heel of his hand over his aching thigh, the back of his thumb nudging his dick through his jeans on the upstroke, but he's not going to fucking touch himself. He's nothing to them, less than a fly on the wall. They've forgotten him. They fall onto the bed, Foreman on top, grinning, Amber artful and predatory beneath him. Both of them working on Foreman's fly, laughing, goddamn them, stripping Foreman's jeans off. The thick line of Foreman's cock through his boxerbriefs twitches under Amber's cupped and pressing hand. Foreman's breath turns harsh, rumbling in his throat. He covers Amber, his weight sinking them both into the mattress. There's the faintest rhythmic creak of springs under the sound of their gasps. House could be anywhere, at home, on Pluto for all they care. They'd fucking remember him if he came in his jeans. Remember and pity him, if he slunk out holding his coat closed to hide the semen stain. The last thing he'd ever do is touch.

Amber's arms wrap around Foreman, her fingers clutching in time with her hitching, pleading breaths. One hand cups the back of his head, the other tightens in the fabric of his boxers, yanking his hips down. She moans; one long, incredible leg extends, toes curling; she digs a heel into the back of Foreman's thigh and _arches_\--

"_Fuck_," House mutters. The chair's a damn torture device. He can't get comfortable no matter how he shifts his weight. The air in the bedroom is close enough to stifle.

Foreman lifts a hand to tug Amber's wrist away from his face and twists to stare at him. He's as mussed as _Foreman_ could ever get, chest heaving, eyes wide enough that the whites show. Shoving away from Amber--she whines a gentle disappointment but lets him go--Foreman rolls to the far side of the bed, as if he's safer glaring from a distance. "That's enough."

House slumps back, slouching with the full weight of his presence. Turns out he hasn't disappeared just because that would be convenient for Foreman. Not that it's any surprise that Foreman wants to blame _him_ because he got carried away.

Amber turns her head on her pillow, a sly gleam in her eyes. "He hasn't broken the rules," she says, needling House with his own compliance. "Baby, don't you want--"

"I _want_ him to stop watching."

Unconcerned, Amber stretches her satisfaction. "That's the deal."

"No. The deal is that he's here."

House works all his contempt into a sneer. "Having a hard time keeping it up because I'm in the room, or is that a regular occurrence?"

Foreman rolls to his feet and circles the bed, stopping in front of House and looming over him. Despite House's taunt, keeping it up doesn't seem to be a problem at all. "Why are you really here, House?"

"Is that rhetorical or just a stupid question?" Foreman doesn't move beyond the flaring of his nostrils. House narrows his eyes. "Your girlfriend's saving your job," he says coolly, testing. Foreman was eager to wring his neck ten minutes ago. Since then he could have fucked Amber and tossed House out on his ear, but instead he's hanging over House asking questions and making no move to cover himself.

Foreman crosses his arms across his chest, stupid muscles rolling under his skin. "You wouldn't care, if this was about work."

"Eric--" Amber's objection is languorous, made for form's sake. She's rolled to her side to watch them, head cradled on her neatly-folded hands, hair mussed.

"Think you're missing something?" Foreman barks. "Hope you'll get it here?"

Foreman's boxerbriefs aren't exactly white. They're the lightest shell-pink pastel, nearly translucent at the one damp spot over the head of his cock. House grits his teeth and spits out indifferently, "If you don't want me watching, I'll be on my way."

"Did you want to touch her, House?" Foreman's voice gets lower, dangerous. The heat in House's stomach squirms lower, and he freezes to the spot rather than let it show.

"I say who touches me," Amber puts in from the bed, as casual as if it's a damn hypothetical.

Foreman snorts. Without turning, he says, "He wouldn't be here if you didn't like him watching. You're showing off."

A smirk works its way free of House's control. Amber certainly rubbed off against Foreman's dick in record time. An audience turned a few kisses into a fireworks session. Apparently House watching does more for Amber than Foreman can on his own. "And you have a solution."

Foreman's hand shoots out and House braces to take the punch. But it's not that--Foreman snakes a hand behind House's head and hauls him forward, up, into a kiss. Awkward, badly angled, but Foreman forces his way in. Some part of House categorizes the sensation: coarse, hot, mouth unexpectedly minty. A sound wrenches from House's throat, but it's smug. Foreman's _in_terested. Not so fucking straight after all, and he probably hates it. Amber knew. Did Foreman? House sucks at his tongue, scrapes teeth over Foreman's lower lip and tastes its fullness; surges _up_. Foreman yanks away like he's been burned. His beard rasps across House's mouth and the raw sensation of the kiss brightens before it ends.

"That," Foreman says, panting.

"_Oh_," Amber says, and she squeezes her thighs together. One hand drifts down to dip under the waist of her panties. House tenses. He's still sitting in the fucking peanut gallery. The deal was that he got off on them. Not anything else.

"That's what you wanted," Foreman says. "You don't need to pretend."

"Mm. But it's so much better when it's your idea." Amber stands and sways towards him, hooking her fingers in Foreman's bottom lip--where House was running his tongue five goddamn seconds ago--and kisses him; Foreman's tongue swirls around her fingers as he seeks out her mouth. When she pulls away, her eyes are blue-dark. She stalks to House's chair and bends down to kiss him, her palm warm on his shoulder for balance.

It's softer than Foreman's kiss could ever be. She's playing the flirt, treating him like a first kiss, tongue darting and exploring. House cooperates, closing his eyes and pretending the ruffle of her fingers through the hair behind his ears and over his nape means something. Let Foreman bear the brunt of the cocktease for once. House is finally getting his. When Amber pulls back, House stares at her flatly. Let her read _not good enough_ in his eyes. She'll have to do better if she wants to please him. "What makes you think I'm interested?"

Foreman's gaze flicks to House's crotch. He raises an eyebrow. "If you're not, then leave. You've seen a year's worth of beat-off material." That's not all, and Foreman knows it. Tonight will fuel House's comments at them for longer than that. The blackmail potential alone has to be worth it. Rough and emphatic, Foreman says, "I don't want you _watch_ing."

"Because participating makes you so much manlier."

House blinks when Foreman laughs. Jesus, at least his anger made _sense_. "This isn't about manliness, House. This is about making you do exactly what I say."

House rolls his eyes to get away from Foreman's damned pointed stare and contrives a wounded sniff. "Do you even know me?"

"Because otherwise. You will leave. Your choice."

Without even pausing to think, House lifts his chin, defiant. Jesus, he's as easy as Amber, slave to a challenge. Foreman chuckles again and nods. He expects House to stay for his pride's sake. If Foreman ever gets to top in Amber's bedroom, that must be the only reason why. He can corner her with how much more submissive he can be. Amber probably _sprints_ into that trap. Anything to prove that she can bottom with the best of them.

"You know I can push you out of here," Foreman says. "And I don't care if it hurts."

"--Fine." The word snaps out. House sets his lips and swallows, too late to call it back.

Foreman's eyes widen for no more than a second, and then his damn superiority takes over, stronger than before. "Take your clothes off."

"Why, think you'll like what you see?" Fucking weak objection. House reaches for his shirt buttons, hands caught between shivering and determined. His eyes dart around the room. Not that there's any escape but the door, with Foreman's derisive laughter following him out.

Amber watches him over Foreman's shoulder. She wraps her arms around his chest, and one hand descends to palm Foreman's cock through his boxers. Foreman's chest rises and falls, a little faster, but his arms are still bands of muscle, crossed across his sternum. The look on his face suggests he's just told a delinquent teenager to clean his room rather than a bed partner to undress. But there's the pink tip of his tongue, wetting his lips, and the slight tilt of his head as he studies House more closely.

House's fingers falter under the expectant weight of both their stares. Not like there's anything to show off. He stands up, lets his outer shirt fall and his suit jacket with it. Making them stop watching is as simple as kissing Amber, over Foreman's shoulder. Defiance, before he's even shown any skin. Amber's happy to spar with him. Between them, her hand squeezes Foreman's dick even as she lets House drive the kiss farther.

Foreman endures it for the duration of an eyeroll, and then he drops his arms, pushing Amber's grip away, and putting House off-balance, too. Foreman steps forward, keeping House on the back foot. He grabs for the hem of House's t-shirt, tugging it up, getting it over House's head at the same time that House makes a grab for him to keep his balance. For a second they tangle together, _fuck_, and then, when House is bare-chested, Foreman yanks him forward and kisses him again.

Foreman's tongue is angrier and more purposeful than House would ever have thought. Foreman's hands dig into the muscle at his shoulder, along his delts, but House's arms hang useless at his sides. He's breathing too hard, concentrating too much, to think about bringing them up and finding his own hold on Foreman. A sound vibrates at the back of House's throat and he hates himself for letting go. That's all Foreman wants. House's arousal amounts to giving in, and it probably turns Foreman on. He cups the back of House's neck again and _leans_, forcing House back until he has to clutch at Foreman and finally tear away. "Didn't your mother ever teach you to leave the cripple some fucking _room_?"

"That's what we're giving you. Fucking room." Amber's practically vibrant. Her lips are swollen from the rasp of both their kisses, and she smiles like she's the queen of the damn universe. "Watch," she says, and sends Foreman to the bed with a light push.

House bristles. Amber meets his eyes evenly, at the same moment that her hands, brusque and competent, tug his belt open and reach for his fly. "That's all it takes?" House says, scraping together his control by sniping at Foreman.

"I know what's good for me," Foreman says, lying back to support himself on his elbows. His eyes seem to say, _so should you_. His hot, jealous stare is palpable, a threat like an imperfect touch.

House has time for a narrow glare at Amber shifts her attention to his ears, then his throat. No reason why House should show off his scars while Foreman's reclining on the bed, sculpted and gym-perfect, abs tightening as he rubs a casual palm against the bulge in his shorts. His eyes are dark, almond-shaped, angry and lazy by turns, as if he can't decide if he wants to let Amber do this. Not that he has any choice; _letting_ Amber do anything is out of Foreman's hands. If he knows it, it doesn't bother him. The slight curve of his mouth is all satisfaction, all self-importance. His girlfriend, his suggestion; it might as well be his mouth sucking and nipping at House's collarbone, plucking at his nerves and making him shiver. Foreman watches like hawk, like what he's about to see turns him on even more than turning House to jelly does.

And--"Oh _fuck_." House squeezes his eyes shut. God_damn_ his own inability to keep his mouth closed. Amber kneels: a sight he's paid girls to see before, but it's not the memory of hookers or blowjobs that turns him on, it's the promise Amber sends up his torso with a look. Her eyes taunt him, confident and sure, while she shoves his belt aside with a clink and pulls down his fly with a clearly audible _zip_. Dry-mouthed, House gapes down at her, then glares at Foreman, then turns his head determinedly away, to the damn wall, so that he won't have to see either of their faces when Amber yanks his jeans down to his knees. His shorts are long enough that they'll only see the depression, the lack of thigh muscle, at first. And they're both doctors, for fuck's sake. Amber's hand is already resting there, as if she didn't fucking know. It's a damn lie. No matter how good she is, tugging his shorts down, elastic bunching under his balls, it's a lie.

God. Her _mouth_. The look on her face, fucking _hell_, it's that Catholic schoolgirl innocence, that naughty nurse stare. She tastes him with a girlish tentativeness as if she's never sucked a man hard and fast before, and that _stare_ tells him it's all a game in the same instant that she plays the role. _Oh sir, you're corrupting me, please don't, please don't, except--except--oh, it feels--_

Damn, how it _feels_. House's breath burns in his throat. He stares down at his own dick like he's never seen it before; never seen a slim, long-fingered hand wrapped around it, nails polish-perfect; never seen lipstick smear over his skin as a woman seals her mouth around him and draws in her cheeks.

"Do him harder," Foreman says.

Only then does House remember to glare. "Should've--told me," he says, voice grinding. "I could've. Put up signs around the hospital so much sooner. How much does this--uhn--turn you on?"

"Not that much," Foreman says. "You still have your pants on."

House's breath catches. There's no way out of this damn trap they've got him in. Amber treats him like a summertime lollipop, a lick here, a suck at the base, turning her head, considering him. He's already harder than he can remember--and fuck Foreman, anyway, constrained by his briefs and obviously longer, thicker, younger, lounging like he's a fucking underwear model. House maps Foreman's erection by the way he's edging with the heel of his hand, then drifting a fingertip over the line of his cock.

"Thought you didn't want me to _watch_," House finally grits out.

"So don't," Foreman says. House wants to smash his fist through Foreman's smirk. There's too much here to walk away from. Warm bodies and no money on the table. Mouths he can kiss--Foreman's draining tension from House's shoulders too easily; Amber's demure, evasive, and all the more tantalizing because of it. Watching both of them, seeing Amber working his dick and testing the weight of his balls in her cupped fingers, it's like they want him to fucking _melt_. As if he's not too old and grumpy and hurt to be here at all.

House pushes Amber back. His dick slips from her lips, shining from her saliva. She licks her lips and tries to lure him back with her seductive smile, but he's tired of being their toy. "There's better than that," Amber promises, low-voiced.

House grunts. He wants this his way, and that means he's not going to come under the straing of standing up. He has to sit on the bed next to Foreman to get his sneakers off. He steals the space as obnoxiously as he can, bouncing down just hard enough that it won't hurt. Nobody's naked here, nobody's attractive. Grumbling, he drags off one shoe and then the other, socks going with them. His feet are long, and bony, and pasty. Under his jeans his legs are uneven, ropy, thin-shanked. Nobody dreams about _his_ ass.

Jesus, they're playing him for a fool. Why would they--why would anyone--drag him into bed? House's shoulders knot again, all the massaging work of kisses undone in three seconds flat.

Amber's nude when he looks up, the artful red scraps discarded. The imprint of the lace remains, high over her hipbone, over her shoulders. Her nipples harden as he watches, pinked by arousal. A rustle behind him, and Foreman's just as naked. Both of them. Fucking _beautiful_ and acting like that means something. House sets his jaw and refuses to want either of them. But his dick--his dick's another matter, still poking up from his shorts. He looks ridiculous.

Amber kneels, this time to drag his jeans off. Foreman's breath warms his ear, jerking a tremble out of him. House closes his eyes. Desperate. The desperate cripple. Might as well give him a roll in the sack, keep him distracted. Of course he can leave. Any time. Any time he'd like them to win.

House scrambles to push himself up, but before he can, Foreman touches him. It's awkward as hell. He clearly has no idea what he's doing and House isn't sure that _he_ can keep it up. Fucking straight people.

Amber lifts her eyes to his. House would bet any money that _she's_ not. That she's been with women. She shares it with him in a quirking smile--Foreman's clueless.

It shouldn't help, but Christ, she's kneeling at his feet and conspiring with him. Her glance is a quiet mockery of Foreman's technique and there is no other reason House stays where he is. Amber smiles at Foreman, too, and takes his hand in hers, so that they're both working House's dick.

Oh _God_. _Amber_ knows what she's doing. House's eyes close, the better to feel her turning him inside out. He misses what passes between them because he's letting out another one of those damn moans that give away too much. By the time he opens his eyes--he has to keep an eye on them, he can't let them get away with screwing him over (metaphorically; literally that plan is just fucking fine)--he misses whatever secret in-a-relationship message they passed with their eyes. Amber's hand falls away. Foreman's directly behind him, fingers suddenly firm on his dick, squeezing, palm _lin_gering at the top of the stroke, so tight that House--with no effort at all, without even lifting his hips--is fucking Foreman's fist on the downstroke.

"Fuck. Uhn. Like that. Like--" House clamps his mouth shut, a groan taking over the words that want to spill out. God, _oh_. Yes. _Please--_

Amber takes over the chair where House was sitting, facing both of them. Her hand slips down over her belly, fingers trailing through her pubic hair, sliding lower; her legs part. House draws in a breath and the rich smell of her arousal is dizzying. The room is thick and sharp with it, the scent of sex. House stares helplessly as Foreman works him harder. From the hot rush of Foreman's breath in his ear, he's staring too. Amber cups her breast, rolls her nipple between her fingers, _gasps_.

"You like--_oh!_\--watching me?" Halting, high-pitched, hesitant. That schoolgirl voice. It's fake, but it knows it's fake. Amber's putting on a show. She's the star and they're left paralyzed, taking it all in. "It, ahh, oh it feels...good..." Amber lifts her hips, breathes out helpless cries. Two fingers toy with her labia, circle her clit; push deeper on her own cry of "Oh _now_." Her other hand follows to rub over her mons as she fucks herself, her fingers inside now, disappearing, reappearing shiny with moisture.

Foreman's cock presses, hot and hard, against House's spine. His mouth's by House's ear and House will not, he will _not_, close his eyes or hope for Foreman's mouth, lips, tongue, sucking at his jaw, biting at his throat. Each stroke of his hand slicks precome down House's dick. Spreads heat through his body, pleasure so sweet it aches. House might be a decade older than them but even he's getting to the point of no return. They've barely done anything, and God, he wants more.

"Eric--"

Foreman grunts in answer. Amber lifts her chin, eyes glittering. She's not even close to coming, goddamn her. She's going to orchestrate them while she hovers on the edge. Play with them. House wonders if Foreman--_Eric_\-- knows, but he must. He hesitates--House groans a complaint--and then Foreman bends closer.

Foreman has never kissed a guy. It's painfully obvious. He doesn't know what to do with the prickly taste of beard; he tries to _flirt_ with House like he's some wide-eyed virgin before he realizes it's like the hand job: House wants it rougher, needier. Foreman sucks at his pulse, sparking another flare along his nerves. The last thing House sees is Amber watching them like they're her personal porn, and then he's leaning back, groaning and unwilling, into Foreman's chest. Foreman binds him in place, demanding nothing of his leg. Everything's so good, so fucking good.

Foreman grunts again, speaks hoarse and low. "You want to fuck my girlfriend, House?" He rocks against House. Stiff and so hot, his cock streaks precome over House's back.

House laughs, hollow and desperate. Foreman wants him to moan out an affirmative. He wants to deny him. Tell him Amber's vagina is off-limits. It wouldn't be, not for the right price--and the right price is giving Amber the show she wants. Making her come the way she wants. Making everything happen _just_ as she wants. "No," he says, arching his neck, inviting Foreman to suck harder, bite, God, leave a damn mark if he wants. But no, not fuck Foreman's girlfriend.

One look at Amber and House knows where this is going. God. God, _he's_ going to get fucked. She has lube somewhere, and condoms even though she's on the pill. (House knows she is. How do they think he found out that that they're "serious", that this is a "relationship"?) Amber is going to teach Foreman how to fuck, using House as the whimpering, squirming, _willing_ example.

Foreman pauses, and it's Amber's turn to laugh. "He knows he doesn't deserve it," she murmurs. _Yet_ hangs in the air. She stands up, and, like House thought, she opens the nightstand drawer. There's the lube, the condoms. And at the back, half-hidden, a dildo--mauve; Foreman must _love_ it.

"She's--ahh--fucked you, hasn't she," House says, pleasure coming as sharply from _knowing_ as it does from Foreman's grip on his dick.

Foreman wrenches his hand away. "Fuck you."

Point scored. House would laugh again if he had the breath. _Yeah_. Yeah, fuck him. He isn't resisting now. He rolls fully onto the bed. Amber wants this, even if Foreman doesn't know it yet. "I knew she had your balls but I didn't know she'd taken your dick, too."

"_House_\--"

"Not tonight," Amber interrupts, smooth as spider silk. House hears the click of the bottle cap, the oily squelch of the lube. Yes, fucking God, _yes_. Endorphins are better than any opiate. He's already high, but he's not muffled; everything is perfect, sharp. House rubs against the sheets and pictures Amber giving it to Foreman up the ass while Foreman shudders for it. The first cool-slick finger teasing across his asshole leaves him twitching, helpless. His brain's so far ahead of his body that he's already impatient for Amber's second slender finger to slide into his ass.

"Yeah," he mumbles into the pillow. Who's watched and who's watching, how he got here, he can't remember and he doesn't care. "Yeah, fuck." Amber must have been plotting this for longer than House has been toying with firing them for their own good. All along, she's been conditioning Foreman to do what she wants.

Lost, hazy, House half-hears her, gentling Foreman into fingering him with kisses and _loving_ touches. Same way she worked around to nailing his ass, House bets. _Oh, just my finger, Eric. That's good, isn't it, baby? You know it'd be better if I could go further, don't you? If I got deeper... You'd like that, if I made you come like that. If could get you off with my cock...fuck you hard, baby..._ And Foreman, ass in the air like a fucking wanton, thighs straining, elbows holding him up, face buried in the pillow to hide his groans--trying to hide how Amber could fuck him into oblivion. Working his cock with one hand, with Amber's fingers rubbing inside over and fucking _over_ again, until he whimpered his agreement. _Yeah, Amber, do it, just _give_ it to me--_

Twisting to his side, too eager to wait, House watches them kiss. He curls his fingers around himself, not to stroke but just to feel the heat of his erection. Keep the edge. Thumb riding the head, idle. Amusing himself while they share soft whispers between hot slanting kisses. Amber cups Foreman's balls, rolling them while he hums encouragement deep in his throat. He's fingering her too, and she lifts his fingers to her mouth. Staring into Foreman's eyes the whole damn time, she sucks her own taste off his fingers, bobbing her head, tongue swirling over his fingertip. Making promises.

"Okay," Foreman says, so husky House nearly misses it. Amber's radiance spills out at the word, and she strokes his cheek as she gives him a delicate, _aren't you such a good boy_ kiss.

Foreman glances down at House; his face is carefully blank but his eyes are black, pupils blown. House is too blissed out from the hand job to care that Foreman holds his gaze. He smirks, pleasure-lazy, and doesn't bother to look away. Foreman breaks first, gripping House's shoulder and shoving him to his front. It's familiar by now how Foreman will touch him. Rough, utilitarian, putting him where he needs to be, but gentle enough that there's not even a twinge from his leg.

"Now," Amber murmurs, the interested instructor, showing Foreman how it's done. "Here."

House wonders if she's made Foreman touch himself like this. Given him lessons. Or maybe Foreman's bent Amber over and fucked her this way, while she arched her back for him and fingered her clit as he worked his way in; because--_hmn_\--Foreman's fingers are confident. Large, blunt, and too damn casual, because, goddamn them, they're kissing again.

"Get on with it," House mutters, nudging back against the slip of Foreman's finger. "What are you waiting for, the immunity idol? Fine, you're not getting fired, so come on."

He can't see Foreman's smug, bastard grin, but he can feel it, heating his bare back like the summer sun. "Waiting for you to want it, House."

"Yeah, not gonna happen--" Lies, fucking lies, and Foreman forces him to honesty by finally concentrating. "As long as--fuck--you're that damn slow--"

_Slow_ bursts out with what is, for his dignity's sake, _not_ a yelp. Foreman's finger is in, slippery, intruding, firm and pushing too fast. House hisses, then bites down on his lip. He won't admit anything.

Amber hums in amusement. She lies beside him and charts the topography of his shoulders with slow kisses. She's too damn soothing, probably trying to keep him quiet and still. As if a few goosebumps or shivering contour lines drawn with the tip of her tongue are going to make him shut up. House wriggles to his left side and frees an arm, throwing it around Amber and tugging her into a real kiss. She fights back, reaching down to rub his dick, which is, _damn_ her, a winning move. Foreman chuckles, and pushes _in_, again, probably just to make House moan. God, fuck, he wants to hold back, but he can't. His mouth drops open to pant sloppily, losing the kiss. In cat-eyed satisfaction, Amber takes her hand back, touching herself instead of him.

Fine. Fine. She can make herself come and leave him hanging, it doesn't matter. House's hips move despite himself as he watches Amber go too far in her own teasing. Her eyes flutter shut, a gasp trembles on her lips. The back of her hand brushes his erection as she jerks softly against him. As if it's that easy. But then, her next orgasm is an any-minute-now reality, not a futile, torturous hope.

Foreman has finally found his damn rhythm. In and pause and _thrust_ across his prostate, dragging sharp grunts out of House each time. "More?" he asks, voice pure satisfaction. "You ready?"

"That's--" House chokes on his own words as Foreman tries a more convincing argument. A wash of red-throbbing pleasure rushes behind his eyelids, as if he can see his own nerves firing with each thrust. "That's your damn problem." House clenches his jaw, waiting until he can speak without giving Foreman the satisfaction of hearing his voice crack. "You're always _ask_ing, you don't trust your own fucking _judge_ment--"

That earns him two fingers, and House _groans_. It feels so damn good to groan, to let it out. Between the heat of Amber's playfulness and Foreman's boiling impatience, House loses time; he can't count out every taunting touch without going out of his mind. It can't be long before Amber sits up on her knees and reaches for the condom packet. The foil crinkles and she throws it away, and she bends to mouth Foreman's cock, her hand steadying his erection.

"Yeah..." Foreman rolls his hips forward. Amber's eyes are playful as she lets him fuck her mouth at a shallow angle--she couldn't take him all, but God, even this much is amazing to see, her tongue flicking pink against the underside of his cock. "Amber, unnh, baby--"

"Mmm." She pulls back and fists the condom down his cock. "I know you want to fuck him." She opens the lube and pours a slick handful over him, spreading it down to his balls. "He's gonna come for you."

"Yeah."

Jesus, House can't breathe. Foreman must agree to pretty much anything when there's a hand on his cock. It's obscene, the way they're discussing him. The way Foreman _wants_ him; wants _him_. Such a fucking macho bastard. He thinks his cock up House's ass will prove something. It won't. House swears that it won't. Then, like a damn heating blanket, Foreman's weight falls on him, and the head of his cock, latex-slick but still fucking huge, is _there_. Foreman's hips twitch closer, too fast for an instant and then, fuck, _God_, House is pinned to one damn spot while Amber's voice washes over him.

"Ohh, you like that, don't you." House whines, high in his throat, although who the hell knows who she's talking to, him or _Eric_. And she keeps going, to one or both of them, until her voice is part of the sensation overwhelming House's mind, his body's defiant surge of _need_. "Yeah, that's hot. God, look at you."

"You like getting fucked, don't you, House?"

Stating the obvious, another of Foreman's talents. House's head lolls against the pillow, his shoulders burn as he forces himself back. Foreman doesn't need any answer other than that.

Amber takes out a second condom. There's nothing House can do as she rolls the latex onto his dick. No plea, no objection. Really, _really_ no objection. She has to do everything, hook a leg over his hip to avoid his leg, and then--he's never making fun of her yoga classes again--arch her back and slip closer, one hand guiding him, hot sliding squeeze--

House is lost. He's no one, he's nowhere at all. Just the space between them. Filled and stretched; squeezed deep inside. Foreman's cock glides over his prostate, Amber whimper-cries at his ear, and House's orgasm rises higher, closer, wave upon wave. A damn tsunami and he's never in his damn life going to tell Foreman he's good at anything, unless that's his voice somewhere outside of himself. _Yes, yes, please, fuck--fuck me, oh yeah there, _there_. Yeah, God, _yes.

"Who's making you come, House?" Amber can pin him down while the rest of him's off somewhere else, shaking, already coming in his mind

"You," he says. Both of them, convenient quirk of language. You, plural and omnipresent. Amber's not going to wrangle him into a competition between her and Foreman. She can have everything else but he's not going to be her tie-breaker. "You are. Make me come, please make me come--"

Amber's hand tightens at the same instant that Foreman picks up the pace. Whatever mind House had left deserts him. Wordless, muscles contracting like a grand mal seizure, House tilts on the cusp of his orgasm and then jerks, chasing his pleasure, fucking himself back on Foreman's cock and forward to drive into Amber, wringing every stroke out of both of them. The fire of his nerves fills him so high that there's no room left for _him_. That's all he wants. To be lost like that, to be unable to _think_, to be caught between them. Neither of them own all of him but between them they're giving him something he never could have asked for.

He rides it out as long as it lasts, until he can recognize the deep, satiated groans in his ears as his own. Foreman doesn't come. Fucking stamina-ridden _bastard_. House twitches, oversensitive and reactive, when he pulls out. He strips the condom off, and Amber rolls away from House's slowly softening dick at the same moment.

He drags his eyes open when the mattress sways. Foreman's fucking Amber fast and hard, her legs wrapped around his hips as she matches his rhythm--crying out loudly, arching, uninhibited, coming. Foreman only lets himself go after that. A groan breaks in his throat, and then he surges against Amber one last time, before collapsing half on top, half beside her.

Amber cradles Foreman's head to her breast, hands stroking down his nape, lips soft at his ear. She turns, meeting House's eyes, hers nearly veiled under the damp fall of her hair. "It's better my way, isn't it?"

House is exhausted. Trembling. Without Foreman and Amber on either side, he's freezing in seconds. Pain lingers behind pleasure, always. The cold doesn't help but he doesn't have the energy to yank at the sheets.

He only hopes they won't throw him out so soon that he'll be forced to ask for help down the stairs.

* * *

Saturday night, Foreman was certain that he never wanted to see House again. Tough, considering he works for the jackass. Fury and humiliation stopped his throat when he thought about walking into the office on Monday morning. He knows his damn luck. Whether he's hours early or stomps in on the dot of nine, House is going to be there, waiting with a thousand well-thought out insults.

By the time Sunday night rolled around, Foreman had it figured out. There are better ways to spend his time than to have his heterosexuality coddled. Amber spent Sunday petting him and condescending to him like he was a five year old afraid of the boogeyman. Telling him they never had to think about it again. As if House isn't exactly as clingy and malicious as Foreman knows he is. When House wants his world to stay the way he likes it, he'll insult anyone or ruin any life to keep his orbit and his satellites exactly as they are. Foreman fought it long enough to escape to Mercy, and now he's right back where he started, astonishingly happier than he's ever been, and he doesn't intend to let House screw him over twice. House isn't going to change, so Foreman will fuck with his mind and do it first.

Before any of this mess started, Foreman said to Amber, "What we do--it's private." He pleads with his eyes, with the small touches that Amber barely allowed at first, when she ducked away from any embrace that didn't seem likely to lead to sex. Now, she'll walk into his arms as easily as he stops to kiss her when she comes by his apartment after a long case. That's not something he intends to give up. "Amber, I don't want him seeing this."

"It won't be like this," Amber says.

Foreman scoffs through his nose, jaw clenched. Right. They're not making love, they're having sex, having fun. Fucking. "How can you want him to see you?" he says.

"Not me," Amber says. "_Us_. Eric, he's jealous--"

Foreman keeps his hands gentle at the small of her back, his kiss whispering across her lips. Slow, tender. He thinks, _I love you_, which he hasn't said. Amber hasn't hinted that she wants to hear it. In fact, Foreman suspects that if he lets that word loose then she'll be the one running. "Our relationship has nothing to do with him!"

"And he hates that," Amber says. She's holding on to his elbows, keeping him where he has to meet her eyes eventually. "We won't touch him. He'll have to sit there and watch while we're together. Show him what he's missing."

Foreman's shoulders twitch, resenting Amber's light, massaging touch. "And then he fires one of us anyway."

"It'll be amazing," Amber says. As if that's incentive. It already is amazing; why does she want to drag an audience into it? "He'll be pressing his nose up against the glass, wishing he had anything half as good. He won't even get a sniff. You have me, and House has nothing." Her eyes shine, and she's smiling playfully at him. Foreman recognizes that innocent stare--it's anything but. In fact, there's the same hint of mindfuck that Foreman hates seeing from House. "And every time House makes one of his little comments, you'll know it's only because he can't _stand_ the fact that we're together and he's miserable."

"House likes being miserable."

"So he's a masochist. We'll give him more to be tortured about." Amber sways towards him. "Eric. You won't have to think about him. I promise. You won't know he's there. You'll be looking at me."

She seems to believe her own promise, but Foreman shakes his head, pulling away.

That's not what happened, and whatever jokes House will make, Foreman knew it wouldn't be before he ever showed up.

Yeah. Such a joke. Foreman actually knows what he wants, and he's not interested in either of them--Amber _or_ House--telling him otherwise.

He goes in at seven. Best suit; best cologne; fresh shave. _Not_ for House. After the weekend, Foreman would like to prove that he can do something on his own, without being manipulated into it.

House is sitting in the dark in his office, twining an elastic band around his fingers. Foreman drops his coat and his briefcase in the conference room and doesn't so much as pause for coffee. He slams the door open, as much as the hydraulics will allow, and says, "Don't fuck with us, House."

Devilment appears in House's eyes before Foreman finishes his sentence. "I thought that's what you wanted."

Foreman stares at him flatly, riding his anger. "I know it's against your personal life philosophy, but you'll ask next time. This isn't your game."

House stops. Sits up slowly, eyes narrow. The elastic band drops to his desk. "I don't think it's yours, either."

At last, Foreman lets loose a smirk. "You know it isn't." He raises an eyebrow, and House's mouth opens, gratifyingly silent, before he snaps it shut and draws an amused look across his face.

"I _knew_ she had your balls--"

Foreman laughs softly. God, the jokes are old. And they don't work as well when he doesn't care. "Yeah," he says, and he offers House a wink before he jaunts out of his office. "Just wait until she has yours, too."


End file.
